


Harriet Potter and the Dark Calling

by Arualiaa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Dream Sex, Dream encounters, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Fem!Harry, Femslash, Grief/Mourning, Harriet's friends are supportive, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, No Bashing, Panic Attacks, Power Dynamics, Redemption, Vulnerability, fem!Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:26:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arualiaa/pseuds/Arualiaa
Summary: The Girl-Who-Lived finds herself entranced by her sworn enemy’s memories in Dumbledore’s pensieve. Is this newfound attraction to the Dark Lady a temporary phase, or will it prove to be fatal?





	1. The catalyst

“Harri!”

The Gryffindor looked up from her handiwork. She had been touching up her Firebolt, polishing the wood and snapping the end of some damaged twigs. Sometimes, she fancied herself a muggle motorcycle repairwoman, like those tough girls in the movies who dressed in black leather and chewed away at bubblegum while they tinkered with engines and mechanical parts. Harriet, of course, didn't really improve her broom as much as she was maintaining it — and truth be told, she wasn't much of a perfectionist either — but it was still fun to pretend being badarse while she busied herself with her broom care tools.

She gingerly placed the tiny shears she was using on the table, and looked at her friend. “Uh, hey! What are you up to?”

Hermione had an oddly determined look in her eye. “Can we talk? …somewhere else?”

Harriet frowned: her bushy-haired friend meant business. Was she going to bring up her meetings with the Headmaster? They entered the room they shared with Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown and Fay Dunbar.

“I've noticed you have been acting weird lately,” Hermione said, sitting on her fourposter.

Harriet sat next to her, half her mind on the fact that she’d left her broom and tools unattended in the common room. Theft wasn't common between Gryffindors, but a past of internalizing that property was futile when it came to people’s intentions made her twitchy about having her stuff laying around. Spending six years in relative safety and surrounded by friends had dulled her paranoia a bit, but some of the wariness was ingrained so deep within her bones that it seemed nigh impossible to get rid of.

Her friend seemed to notice her discomfort. “Don't worry, I’m sure a… certain someone will have the heads of anyone daring to touch your broom,” she muttered, but her disdainful tone wasn't very reassuring. This silly quarrel with Ron was getting on the Girl-Who-Lived’s nerves: couldn't they both see how utterly foolish they were being about this thing? “Speaking of him, actually…”

Harriet started at that. Could she know? If Hermione knew, it meant Ron could possibly know, and that meant she was doomed!

“…yes, ‘Mione?” She asked, tersely.

"You have been walking on eggshells around Ron. I may not talk to him, but I notice these kinds of things.” Her eyes were soft, and Harriet allowed herself to take a calming breath. “We’re friends, Harri. You know I’ll support you. Don't think I won't just because the circumstances make this mess a little weird.”

“Really?” A little weird, indeed! She couldn't possibly feel more awkward talking about this with Hermione. Ron might feel easier, but her bushy-haired friend was arguably the best at dealing with this sort of thing, but it may get in the way of their friendship…

“Of course I will! I swear, if _Won-Won_ breaks another heart, I am going to strangle him with my bare hands.”

“Wait… what?”

Hermione’s puzzled expression must be a pretty accurate impression of her own, Harriet decided. Because there was nothing in her friend’s sentence that made any sense to her.

“Wait, you… don't like Ron?”

The words took a few moments to register in her mind. Shocked amusement made Harri’s eyes light up. “ _Like_ him? Merlin, no! He’s my friend, I don't… want to date him, or anything. If I made kissy faces at him he’d probably check me for signs of the Imperius curse. _I_ would think I'm under the Imperius curse, and I’m resistant to it!”

“Wait… what were you so afraid of, then? I can't find any other explanation for why you’d be so nervous around him…”

…oh. Trust Hermione to figure it out. Colour rose to Harriet’s cheeks, and she fidgeted with her hands. Oh God, she couldn't do this. She couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't—

"...Harri. What’s wrong?”

Oh, screw it. She was a Gryffindor, she could think about the potentially terrifying consequences later. “…I sort of confessed to Ginny this summer, and I’m sure if Ron finds out he’ll have my hide, and I think he suspects something since last week?” The blurted out answer sounded more like an anxious question, but the only thing she could focus on was to take deep breaths.

“…confessed?”

“My- my feelings. Not returned. I tried to kiss her, and then she turned me down- very gently! But it still was…” A shaky exhale. “Why am I… I’m rambling. I’m sorry, Hermione. Forget about it.”

“Harri… breathe,” Hermione reminded her. She closed her eyes, not wanting to face her disgust. It was easier to relax when all she could see was pitch black. “You're a lesbian, then?”

Breathe, breathe, breathe. “Yes.” The admission reluctantly rolled off her tongue, and she tensed up. The air felt heavy around her, too heavy to get in her lungs-

A pair of arms wrapped around her. She blinked, and found her face buried in her friend’s curls. “Thank you for telling me,” She breathed, and Harriet allowed her eyes to fall shut again, relaxing in the embrace. Hermione didn't sound disgusted, that was good. “I'm proud of you.” She honestly didn't understand why. She was terrified.

“…you don't hate me?” The raven-haired witch asked lamely, her voice small. Hermione pulled away, and this was it, this was when she’d see contempt in her eyes. But no, there was only understanding, and a fierceness she only saw when her friend was really passionate about something.

“Of course not! You're my best friend. How could I hate you for something as silly as who you love? That's what Dumbledore always says, doesn't he? That love is the most powerful magic of them all?”

A laugh escaped her lips, somehow. Her tenseness was slowly beginning to fade. "I don't think he was referring to this when he said that, ‘Mione.”

“Nonsense! I’m sure he’d approve if he knew. Love is love.”

A shaky breath. Harriet closed her eyes and ran a hand through her messy hair, combing her fringe back with her fingers. It fell back to her face again, but she didn't mind it all that much. It was just a nervous gesture she tended to fall back on.

“…I guess the Dursleys also told me that magic was freakish too. And it wasn't true, right?” Hermione nodded so earnestly, it made her feel ashamed of doubting her. Still… “Hey, ‘Mione… please don't tell? Only Ginny and Cho know it. And now you do.”

Her friend frowned. “Cho? Cho Chang, from the DA? Wait…” Realization flooded the other Gryffindor’s face. “So you _were_ dating! Ron joked about it all the time. I thought he was just being a prat.”

“He… he did?” Harriet asked, paling considerably. Oh no. Oh no, if he…

“Harri, relax. So what, if he knows? He’s a pureblood, remember?”

…what?

She seemed to sense her confusion, because Hermione immediately entered her familiar lecture mode. It made Harriet smile, just a bit. “The wizarding world is far more progressive when it comes to sexual orientation, because there’s many ways to produce an heir magically. You’d be surprised about how many, actually. Fertility potions, blood adoption…”

“How do you know so much about what stuck-up prats do to keep their lines ‘pure’?” Harri asked, relaxing enough to even make air quotes.

“You can’t never know too much about anything!” Her friend stated proudly, and she couldn’t disagree more.

Because for the past months she’d been fed knowledge she almost wished she could claw out of her mind.

She didn’t want to dwell on the little girl’s haunted eyes in that dreary grey orphanage, as dreary as her cupboard had felt, she didn’t want to face the similarities, definitely didn’t _want_ to acknowledge the tightness in her chest when she saw the woman’s breathtaking, perfect features, painted crimson lips as she laughed affably with Hepzibah Smith as if they were old friends, the flicker of crimson in her eyes matching her lipstick and giving her the perfect picture of a femme fatale, an elegant cobra ready to strike-

“Harri?”

Hermione pulled her away from her thoughts, and she could finally breathe.

“I’m okay, I’m okay… just… a bit rattled. Mind if I just… go back to my broom?”

“You look pale,” her friend pushed.

“Please. It helps me calm down.”

Hermione rubbed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Harriet could almost melt into the touch. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been. Instead, she forced a smile for the other witch’s sake.

“You know I’ll always support you, right?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. But what would she think if she knew the kind of thoughts that had been plaguing her?

Soon, she was back to her Firebolt, rubbing the wood polish in on autopilot. She no longer felt like the badarse muggle biker that her mind associated with Tonks. A strange emptiness filled her chest, and she tried to soothe it by breathing in the strong, intoxicating smell of the polish.

It didn’t work, and it took all of her willpower to not slump against her broom.

Why did these memories affect her so much? Why did even thinking about them hurt? They were meant to help her understand her enemy, and Dumbledore wouldn’t just show them if it weren’t for a good reason. She knew it was about the horcruxes, but-

She hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks, a faint glamour only managing to conceal the bags under her eyes. Those haunting eyes plagued her day and night, but it was infinitely worse in her dreams. She didn’t dare go to sleep.

It was definitely making a number on her mental health, if Hermione had managed to pick up on her avoidance of Ron. She was very observant, but Harriet's behavior must have been obvious enough for her to reach that drastically wrong conclusion.

Her mood completely sullied, Harriet lamented that Voldemort had ruined yet another one of her escapes. She couldn’t even maintain her broom in peace without the monstrous woman in her mind.

She didn’t look monstrous at all in the memories though, a traitorous voice at the back of her head whispered. She looked lovely, with sharp aristocratic features, soft lips, and gentle waves cascading down her shoulders, not a curl out of place.

Harriet wanted to cry, and scream. The Common Room was blissfully empty, as most students were already heading for dinner. In her stupor, she’d worked for longer than she intended. In the same daze, carefully hiding the maelstrom within, she collected her tools and brought them back to the dorm, placing the Firebolt in its stand to let it soak in the polish.

She wasn’t feeling hungry at all.

 

* * *

 

Despite every nerve in her body screaming at her to stay awake, alarm bells ringing in her head, that night she couldn’t take it any more. Harriet passed out in her bed, weeks of stress and exhaustion taking their toll on her. Her glasses were still askew on her face, digging painfully into her cheek, but she didn’t wake up.

She expected her nightly torment. Either a nightmare, fueled by the Pensieve’s memories or her own past, or Voldemort’s atrocities, seen through her eyes in real time.

_Instead, Harriet felt someone stroke her hair comfortingly. It was always messy, wavy and short, a bit over her shoulders, and nobody had ever touched it like this before. Certainly not aunt Petunia, who yanked at it constantly when it refused to grow past that length against her wishes._

_“Relax…,” a familiar voice said, but she couldn’t pinpoint where she’d heard it. Her head was foggy. She didn’t need the command, she was already relaxing, but the simple word soothed her soul like a balm._

_The hand left her hair and she mourned the loss, but it trailed instead against her cheek, tracing her face oh so carefully with long nails. They didn’t scratch her, merely leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. Her heart fluttered pleasantly._

_A woman circled her so she stood in front of her, and before Harriet could process anything, soft crimson lips were against hers, careful, gentle. She stole the breath from her lungs and left her like putty, her only remaining energy focused on reciprocating as much as she could._

_She didn’t want to let go. She’d rather suffocate than allow the kiss to end._

_But the kiss eventually ended, and Harriet gasped for oxygen, whining at the loss. The hand returned to her hair, petting it softly, and the most wonderful tinkle of laughter she’d even heard filled the air. She felt the same lips press against her ear, and whisper something that sent shivers down her spine, the good kind._

_“Soon, my sweet. Soon.”_

Harriet woke up feeling well-rested for the first time in what had to be years. She curled up contentedly, a smile playing on her face, but then the dream started trickling back down into her consciousness, and her heart sank.


	2. Poisonous truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The dreams grew worse. Only in hindsight, of course, because when she was in them, Harriet felt more complete, more loved and cared for than she’d had in her entire life.

All of it in Tamsyn Riddle’s awaiting arms, and the thought that she could be so calm, soothed, even _aroused_ by her presence and lingering touches, terrified her. She felt sullied, damaged.

She went three days without sleeping after the first dream, and her mistake repeated itself. She blacked out, and there she was again, wrapped in pure bliss.

On top of the dreams, those dark, hollow eyes from the pensieve memory still haunted her. That little girl with twin braids and an empty gaze might have looked like a miniature psychopath to anyone else (and Merlin, had she done awful things already) but Harriet had seen that same expression in the mirror for years. She, too, had once been a child with a deep, yawning hole in her chest where childish wonder, love and affection should have been. Her heart broke when she'd heard little Voldemort's voice thick with hope and her eyes light up for the first time as she babbled about what she could do, uncaring to reveal her secrets, because she was finally, _finally_ getting out of that hellhole. Harriet was sure she'd looked at Hagrid with the same hope and wonder in her eyes.

They were so similar, and the dreams only pulled them closer, and Harriet just wanted to get away from it all before it consumed her.

She grew desperate, the contradiction becoming torture in itself. Hermione and Ron were still mad at each other, but it got bad enough that she thought she’d seen them talking at some point, and her name being mentioned.

Harriet wasn’t sure. Days passed in a blur, and she started stealing Dreamless Sleep potions from Slughorn’s storage cupboard.

It was a reprieve, but short-lived. She guzzled down the last she’d managed to find two days previous, and on top of the lack of sleep, she could already feel the pull of the chemical, her body screaming at her for more.

Hadn’t Snape said once in class these were addictive? Well, she was sure now.

And speaking of, there was only one person left who was bound to have more of them.

Harriet tiptoed around Snape’s new office, shrouded in the Cloak. After the pensive fiasco, if he found her she was sure he’d kill her on the spot, but desperation and addiction were demanding mistresses.

If she’d been in her right mind, she might have noticed the door opening and closing silently behind her, but she completely missed the soft click and the whooshing of robes.

Two wordless spells hit her back, toppling her to the ground. She could almost taste them at the back of her tongue. _Petrificus totalus. Accio cloak of invisibility._

She wanted to cry.

“What, pray tell, were you doing in my office at this ungodly hour of the night, Miss Potter?” Said an icy voice behind her, and she almost, almost wished she’d been knocked unconscious because even the dreams would be preferable to this.

No such luck. The stunner was lifted, and tremors took over her body. She had no snarky remarks for him this time. Not now. Perhaps not ever. All she felt was an all-encompassing cold, the pull of sleep that wouldn’t come with all the potions she’d been ingesting, and the grip of fear in her chest.

Severus Snape was a dementor in disguise, she was sure of it.

“Well?” He was getting impatient. And angry. He should be. She’d been in his bloody office after the mess she’d caused during their lessons, so careless, so reckless…

“Miss Potter,” he said again, and his voice was closer. She opened her eyes- when had she closed them? And saw him towering right in front of her. “I will not repeat myself. What. Were. You. Doing.”

His face was blurry, since her glasses had been knocked from her face somewhere as she fell.

“Dreamless…” she managed to croak out, cursing the weakness in her voice. She couldn’t stop shaking. Why couldn’t she stop shaking. “Please…”

He stood very still. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to see his face.

“For how long.”

Harriet couldn’t speak. He’d seen right through her. She didn’t even want to see herself right now, she didn’t want to know what she looked like.

“For how long, Potter?!”

She flinched as if struck, and words stumbled almost incoherently from her mouth.

“T-three weeks. Not yours. Slughorn’s. Ran out. Please… I can’t… not again…”

She didn’t need her glasses to see Snape was pinching the bridge of his nose, letting out an agitated hiss through his teeth.

“Have you learned _nothing_ from my lessons, Potter? You are experiencing withdrawal. And you have not been practicing Occlumency.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, helplessness overtaking her. She shouldn’t have expected mercy from Snape. It was as if the concept was foreign to him.

“It w-wasn’t working, I tried, so hard, a-and I started having nightmares about her, and then she started taunting me in my d-dreams,” she blubbered, knowing it would fall on deaf ears. “I t-tried to stay awake but I black out after f-four days max, and it’s torture and I can’t, not without the potion, I can’t…”

She didn’t know if the withdrawal or her own desperation were the ones forcing the words out of her mouth, or if Snape had somehow found out a way to spell Veritaserum into her stomach, but she couldn’t stop shaking, and tears fell freely from her eyes.

Something covered her in a sudden, and for a second she thought it was the Cloak. But no. It was… something black and silky. Snape pressed her glasses on top of her nose, and she could see him looking troubled, wearing nothing but dress pants and a button-up black shirt.

She’d never seen him without his robes. Was that what he’d dropped on top of her?

“Stop crying and get up, Potter. Unless you want to catch a cold.”

She nodded and shakily stood to her feet, pulling the robes around herself like a blanket and gripping them tight as if they were her tether to sanity.

Snape was holding her Cloak in one hand and his wand at the other. With a flick, he ignited the fireplace, and motioned for her to sit down in front of his desk with a twitch of his head.

Feeling boneless, she complied. As he took his own seat, he summoned two cups of tea.

“Drink,” he commanded, but it was softer than he usually spoke. Harriet wondered if she’d imagined it. The man had been nothing but cruel for the past six years.

Her hands shook as she took a sip, and she recognized the flavour. English breakfast. The irony wasn’t lost on her, since they were drinking it way past midnight.

“What you did was very foolish, Potter. Now you will have to be weaned out off the potion slowly.” He pinched the bridge of his hooked nose. “Why do I find that you always bring nothing but trouble?”

“I don’t,” she protested, but a sudden wave of calmness took over her. Perhaps it was exhaustion. Perhaps… the words came tumbling out of her mouth as she thought them. “You spiked the tea.”

“I did. You were nowhere near coherent enough to give me a proper explanation,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “What do you think I spiked it with?”

A thick fog clouded Harriet’s mind, and she hated how she slumped against the seat. “Calming Draught… and Veritaserum.”

“Very good, Miss Potter. Perhaps you paid attention to my classes after all.”

“I like Slughorn better,” she said, unable to hold her tongue. “He’s gross and greedy for fame but at least he doesn’t try to make my life a living Hell. He doesn’t hate me. I’m doing better at potions, I think.”

If Snape was affected by her words, he held it behind a mask of indifference, as he always did. She closed her eyes, feeling useless.

“I don’t like this feeling… My head feels foggy like in the dreams. I should have expected psychological torture from you. I don’t feel surprised. Is that the potion’s doing?”

His mask was cracking, she idly noticed. Snape was clutching at the edge of his desk, knuckles white.

“I am the one making the questions here, Miss Potter,” he said through grit teeth. “What are the dreams about? What does the Dark Lady do?”

She tried hard to fight the potion, she really did. Her nails dug into her palms until she drew blood, and she couldn’t even be bothered by it because of the calming draught.

“The dreams are torture,” she rasped out. “They are bliss. I feel happy in them, the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. Loved. Cared for. She strokes my hair and whispers the loveliest things in my ears. I feel whole, like a part of me was missing all those years. And when I wake up, and I realize who it was, I feel tainted and used.”

She didn’t notice the tears until they dropped on her hands at her lap, and the salt stung at the wounds. She felt nothing. She was at peace. But her eyes showed her true emotions behind the chemical.

“I don’t know what her goal is with this. Maybe it’s to drive me insane. And I think she might succeed, Snape. I need the potion. Please.”

Snape looked at her eyes intently, and she saw him swallowing thickly. He hadn’t said a word through her confession. There was something turbulent in his dark eyes, was his mask slipping again?

“Half a dose, Potter. And no more stealing. 20 points from Gryffindor,” he said sternly, pulling a small vial (too small, too small) and filling it with the familiar potion she’d grown to depend on. “You will take this for a week, and the dose will be reduced even further after that. You shall come for me to retrieve the vials. Is that understood?”

“Yes… does that mean I will keep on dreaming about her? I don’t want to,” she said. And she cursed the veritaserum in her system, trying to bite her tongue, but- “I’m terrified.”

Snape was never going to let her live this down. Her life as she knew it was officially over. He would exploit her weakness, she was sure of it. She’d begged to the man on the floor, bawled her eyes out in front of him, spilled her secrets, admitted weakness and fear, clung to his robes like a bloody lifeline, and even almost said she hated him.

If it weren’t for the calming draught, she’d be in hysterics.

“You’re a Death Eater. Couldn’t you ask her what she wants? Death is better than this. The torture was better than this…” she kept blubbering on, couldn’t stop talking, and she hated herself for it.

“The Dark Lady does not take kindly to being questioned, Potter,” he said sharply. “Are you begging for death now?”

“It’s already killing me.” No, no, stop, Harriet, stop. “She’s giving me something I’ll never have. She’s taunting me. She’s giving me all this fake affection because she knows it’s something I can’t have in real life. Everyone I care about either dies or keeps their distance and she’s giving it to me tenfold so I make sure of what I’m missing.”

Harriet, no… no… stop talking, just stop talking, fight it, fight it… her soul felt bare, skinned and raw. Curse this potion. Curse this man to hell and back. And curse Lady Voldemort.

“I think she wants me to kill myself.”

At this, Snape rose from his chair. She hadn’t noticed he’d finished his own cup.

“You will not do such a thing.”

“And why would you care?” She asked tiredly. “I know what they did to you. I’ve never liked you because you are sadistic and want revenge on children, but what they did wasn’t right. And you hate me for it. You should be glad to see me gone.”

“Potter… Harriet. Look at me,” he said urgently, gripping her wrist. She wondered if he was going to attack her mind, see if she would go through with a suicide attempt. She just obeyed, staring at him dully.

Snape, for once, looked deeply disturbed.

“Just… take the dose and go, Potter. Grab your cloak. Come back tomorrow. And no more stealing,” he warned, but his voice sounded tired.

“I will, sir.”

And with that, her dose (too little, too little) and her head foggy from the potions, she hurried out of the office, shrouded in her beloved possession.

Once in bed, in her pajamas and under the covers, her inner turmoil began to attack her as she noticed the small dosage of calming draught wearing off.

Time to replace a potion with another. She downed the small vial in one go, and was out like a light.

_After what felt like a long while, Harriet was wrapped into a very familiar embrace. She sighed contentedly, her eyes slipping shut as she rested her head on the taller woman’s soft chest. She radiated warmth, and her heartbeat was reassuring, like a lullaby that soothed her fractured mind. She couldn’t let go even if she wanted to. Harriet needed this like she needed air to breathe. She needed her._

_“And yet, you are still resisting, love. You are running away from my touch, my presence. Have I been anything but kind to you? Have I caused you pain? You shy away from my comfort, when it brings you such bliss,” she murmured sullenly, and her chest rumbled under Harriet’s head. She was sad… had she disappointed her? “You cannot hide it from me, Harriet. It is written all over your face, your body, it shines in your beautiful eyes. You want me, desperately.”_

_She did… Merlin she did. With her comfort and soul-deep relaxation, the woman also brought with her a mighty need, a fire that burned in her veins, an ache that desperately asked to be soothed and made her eyes glaze over with lust. She could play with her emotions so easily, flipping from one side of the coin to the other, with just the slight adjustment to her touches, and Harriet allowed her. She didn’t care what the woman did to her, she was in Heaven, in Heaven…_

_“Stop denying yourself, Harriet. You know what you want,” she said, pulling her away from her chest and picking her by the chin, gently making her look up at her beautiful, enthralling crimson eyes._

_“You,” Harriet breathed, adoration and need plastered all over her face and coating her voice._

_“Good girl,” the woman cooed, pulling her into a kiss so tender it made her knees wobble and her heart beat a quick staccato against her ribcage._

And with the first rays of sunshine coming from the window, it was all over.

For the first time, instead of feeling immediately dirty, she mourned the loss of a murderer’s lips on her own, her fake love and reassurances washing away the previous night’s turmoil.

Maybe she was really going insane, if the waking world felt like the true nightmare in her life.


	3. Taking action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet talks to someone who understands, and it gives her the courage to act.

Her grades were dropping, and she was becoming more and more isolated. Harriet stepped down from her position as captain of the Quidditch team, and ignored the outrage.

Ron, against all her expectations, wasn’t angry. He pulled her aside one day, and dragged her to his dorm. It wasn’t the first time she’d been there: both she and Hermione had hung out with him there before, when they needed to speak privately. It was easy to spot whom each bed belonged to: Dean Thomas’ side of the room was covered in muggle football posters, Ron’s bed was messier and sported his Chudley Cannons regalia, Neville’s was surrounded by potted plants and had a little tank for Trevor, and Seamus Finnigan’s was a bit more tidy and marked by a National Irish Quidditch Team moving poster.

Harriet sighed, being pulled by the hand until they were both sitting on Ron’s four poster. Her head buzzed.

“Harri,” he said. “You look awful.”

She laughed humourlessly. “Wow, way to soften the blow, Ron.”

“No, I’m serious,” he insisted. “I almost lost Gin four years ago. And you’re looking exactly like she did, I can’t lose you too, I just… you’re my best mate. My best lady mate. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“‘Mione put you up for this, didn’t she.”

“Yes, I mean- no, I- Harri, I’m seriously worried!” He looked desperate now, and it made Harriet squirm uncomfortably. “Look, we both talked about this. And if you won’t tell us, fine. But maybe you should tell Gin. If it has to do with You-Know-Who, you know she’ll understand.”

She wished she could sink into the crimson sheets and disappear forever.

“She told me about it,” he said, and she froze. “I’m not mad about it. Merlin, why’d you ever think that? It’s a shame, actually.”

“What is?” She murmured, cautiously.

“That you and Gin can’t get together, I mean. I know you’d treat her right. Better than those arseholes she’s snogging in the hallways,” he mumbled sullenly. “You’re my friend, and you’re a girl. You’d prolly understand her better.”

A blush crept up her neck. Her feelings for Ginny had started fading, and the dreams didn’t help either, but she hadn’t expected the praise.

“Besides, we’d be in-laws. Family, Harri. How bloody amazing would that be?”

She shoved him slightly. “Oi, stop daydreaming. She’s not interested, mate.”

Ron grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Will you talk to her, though? Please.”

Her resolve crumbled, and she sighed heavily. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

She found her exactly where she expected her to be, at the Quidditch pitch. Freshly showered after practice, carrying a bag with her dirty robes and gear. Ginny had taken the mantle of seeker in her absence, and from what she’d heard, she was doing fantastically.

Harriet hadn’t set foot near the field in weeks. She didn’t have the heart to.

“Harri!” She said, smiling brightly. It was a genuine smile, and her twisting stomach eased, just a bit. “Hope you’re here to claim your spot back.”

“‘fraid not, Gin. I… need to talk to you. It’s important.”

When she noticed her frown, panic flared in Harriet’s chest and she backpedaled. “N-no, it’s not- I got the picture perfectly clear, I swear it’s not about-“

“I know it’s not about that, relax,” she said, placatingly. “Ron told me to expect this.”

“You’ve all been plotting against me,” Harriet almost whined.

“What did you expect us to do?! You weren’t taking to anyone. We had to do something…”

Harriet sighed, as they walked away from the pitch and into the fields. She cast a muffling charm around them, and Ginny sat down on the grass, fiery red hair still dripping wet.

She didn’t sit down. She paced nervously.

“This is about You-Know-Who.” Ginny didn’t ask, she just said it.

“Yes. I’ve been having dreams about her. But she’s… in them. Talking to me. It’s not the usual.”

She frowned deeply. “Wasn’t Snape teaching you something to prevent that?”

“It did squat,” she muttered bitterly. “She’s there, and stronger than before.”

There was an awkward silence. “Harri, do you think she’s trying to possess you?”

“I dunno,” she muttered truthfully. “Could you tell when she was?”

Ginny shook her head. “I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t even remember anything afterwards.”

It didn’t make her feel any better. ‘Soon, my sweet,’ she’d said. Did she plan on making Harriet walk to her by herself?

“I think she’s trying to seduce me,” she blurted out.

“Wait, whaaat?”

Harriet nodded, flushing scarlet and attempting to burrow her face into her robes, as if she could disappear into them.

“And is it working?”

She wanted to die. Just let her die. But she couldn’t not answer Ginny.

“I think it is. And I hate myself for it. She hugs me, soothes me, my brain feels all foggy and it’s like Heaven,” she confessed. “She kisses me sometimes, and I just let it happen. It’s… getting under my skin, Gin. I don’t want to sleep again.”

“Harri…” she said, and she was surprised to see fury swirling in Ginny’s eyes. “If she gets her slimy hands on you, I’ll find her and flay her alive.”

She meant it, Harriet knew. When Ginny got protective, she reminded her of Mrs. Weasley. It have her the strength to smile weakly. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That she’ll somehow make me go to her. I can’t let that happen.”

 

* * *

 

The conversation only made her feel minutely better, if only because she’d spilled her secrets to someone who understood. Tamsyn Riddle had been persuasive, but Lady Voldemort was relentless. Harriet had half a mind to tie herself up to her bed to keep from sleepwalking or any kind of funny business, but if Voldemort truly possessed her, she was sure she’d find a way to free her from her bindings anyway.

She might as well enjoy what little peace she could get tonight, Harriet thought as she uncorked the tiny (still too small) vial and put it against her lips.

Her gaze lingered on Hermione’s sleeping form. Her face was visible, and it was clear she hadn’t been sleeping well either. Harriet hated worrying her.

She gulped the liquid down, and set aside her glasses and the vial on her nightstand, with just enough time to get a bit comfortable and fall asleep.

The excess chemicals were purging out of her system, so with the small dose, her dream came sooner than she’d expected.

(Was that a good or a bad thing?)

_“My sweet… you are still struggling. It saddens me so.”_

_Harriet turned around to see the woman, her dark curls and dark robes, once sensual, felt like they belonged in a funeral. Her crimson eyes looked forlorn, and her soft lips were pulled down in a disappointed curve._

_The bliss was gone. She didn’t want to hurt her. She never meant to sadden her. Harriet wanted to kiss the disappointment away from those beautiful lips, but all she could taste was the saltiness of her own tears._

_“All the care, all the love I gave you… I suppose it did not matter to you in the end,” she said, and Harriet’s world came crashing down. No, no, no… “I shall take my leave, then.”_

_And with that, the woman turned away, her robes gracefully billowing behind her as she started to walk._

_“N-no, wait!” Harriet called out, desperately. The woman’s warmth was gone, she was chilled to the bone, and she couldn’t stop shaking. “Please… I need you.”_

_This made the woman pause. She turned around, her eyes boring into Harriet’s very core, as if to ascertain if she was telling the truth._

_“So you say,” she murmured, shortening the distance between them again. Harriet felt like she could finally breathe. “And yet you are afraid. You wish to avoid and postpone my visits. You are truly the one walking away, my dear.”_

_She cupped the younger witch’s cheek, and she suddenly felt like colour had returned to her life. A ray of sunshine in the middle of a thunderstorm._

_“Can you not see how your resistance is hurting you? Hurting us? We belong together. Do you not feel whole when we are close? Complete?” Harriet nodded fervently. The woman leaned in closer, and she thought she’d be kissed. Instead, a whispered confession was breathed right on her lips. “So do I.”_

_Harriet shivered, and unlike before, it was like a pleasant jolt of electricity through her spine. The ice had thawed. The tear tracks were dry on her face._

_The woman lapped at them gently, tasting her sadness at the woman’s sadness, tasting the guilt and loss. Her tongue was gentle, as it’d always been in her mouth._

_Harriet made a move of her own, cupping the woman’s high cheekbone, the gesture so close to the one she’d experienced before, and yet different. She rubbed her calloused thumb against her flawless skin, wanting to convey the extent of her care with the motion._

_The woman felt complete around her. Was it possible that she needed Harriet as much as Harriet needed her? Something stirred in her chest at the prospect. Something warm and pleasant._

_This time, it was she who started the kiss, feeling the need to prove just how true her feelings were. It wasn’t as gentle or as self-restrained as the woman’s were. It was desperate, needy, and the woman responded enthusiastically to it, with just the right amount of teeth to make Harriet moan into the kiss. This newfound desperation rolled off her in waves, making her insides squirm. She needed… she needed… she needed to…_

_“Breathe,” the woman chided gently, pulling away. Harriet gulped down air greedily. As always, she’d forgotten to breathe through her nose in her bliss. It was a shame though, because the woman had a lovely scent._

_Some of the fog was lifting from her head, but the bliss remained. The woman stilled, however, as if something unexpected was happening._

_Harriet recognized this woman, she realized. She’d known her for a long time._

_She was paralysed, and the younger witch felt the need to stroke her hair as the woman had done for her countless times, carding her fingers through the curls that escaped her loose braid._

_“I think I’m falling for you,” she whispered. “And I shouldn’t. This is a dream, isn’t it.”_

_“It does not need to be,” she murmured back, something strange swirling in her eyes. “It could be real.”_

_“I know,” Harriet said, nodding. “I know your name. It’s at the edge of my brain, at the tip of my tongue.”_

_“Do not say it.”_

_With the eldest’s turmoil, her head became clearer and clearer. And yet, she wanted to stay. It was a strange calm that overtook her, as if nothing could hurt her._

_“I’ll hate myself so much in the morning,” she confessed. “I already am, a little bit.”_

_She pressed a sad kiss against the woman’s lips, slack with shock. It somehow felt more genuine than anything she’d felt in months, and the warmth seeped into her bones. Harriet felt alive, and weak with longing at the same time. It was a weird contradiction._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Tamsyn.”_

When she woke up, her scar flared to life for the first time since the dreams started. It was painful, yes, but if she concentrated on it, she could sense the anger, the confusion, and strangest of all, the longing.

Harriet found that she didn’t hate herself as much as she was expecting to. Maybe she _was_ going insane.


	4. Bitter victory and a heavy heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet realizes the consequences of her feelings. Dumbledore can relate.

_It wasn’t supposed to go like this, Harriet thought, pacing around her bedroom._

_Ever since she’d found the truth behind her and the girl’s connection, she’d deemed it her top priority to get her hands on her and keep her safe._

_She’d planned to manipulate her feelings, it was only fair to let her walk into her own sweet, gilded cage on her own free will, but she’d resisted. She’d confided on Severus- the fool had fed her Veritaserum, and yet he’d failed to figure out the extent of her influence._

_Their connection was a powerful one, and she would be lying to herself if she said it did not affect her as well._

_As if called, Nagini slithered into her room, and Harriet sat down, allowing the snake to rest her head on her lap. She didn’t say anything, and it wasn’t necessary. Harriet stroked her familiar’s head, feeling their own link soothe her._

_She’d underestimated Potter. The calm she’d been feeding the girl through her link during their dream sessions- she’d managed to resist it tonight._

_Her feelings had been raw on her face, then. Unguarded in her dreamy haze, and Harriet had felt her own mask slip. She’d expected hatred. She’d expected the turmoil that had been plaguing the girl for months._

_She did not expect a confession, a soft kiss, and her hated birth name, said so sweetly it felt like a promise._

_And most of all, Harriet hated her own reactions to it. She couldn’t understand. The girl said she’d hate herself in the morning, and here Harriet was, doing that exact same thing._

“Harri…”

_She’d succeeded in making Potter infatuated with her. And yet, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory._

“Harri!”

Harriet looked up from her eggs and toast, to Ron and Hermione’s concerned gazes. It was nice to see them on good terms again, she thought absently.

“You were miles away, mate. Was it…?”

“Yes,” she said, a huge grin on her face. She felt well-rested for once, she felt alive.

The familiar throb of one-sided love was dulled by the confusion flaring from her scar. It was fucked up, to feel this for a woman who had murdered her parents and countless others, had tortured her, tried to manipulate her, and made her life hell.

Maybe something was broken in her head, but the sweet taste of victory lingered on her lips. She wanted to laugh. Riddle didn’t understand love. The purest emotion Harriet knew, it caused her turmoil, still throbbing in her scar.

“Harri…”

“It was a good vision,” she finally said, a smile still playing on her lips. “She’s angry and confused. She doesn’t _understand_.”

“Well call me You-Know-Who and slap me with a snake, because I don’t bloody understand either!” Ron exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “What are you being so cryptic about?”

Harriet burst into a fit of giggles. She didn’t know if they were vindictive, or if the small, twisted part of her mind that cared for her found the confusion endearing.

“She doesn’t understand love, Ron. She’s kicking up a fuss about it.”

It was Hermione’s turn to speak. “You mean You-Know-Who is…?”

“Petting her snake for comfort because she can’t figure herself out.”

“You can’t possibly mean that she…” Hermione’s eyes widened. Trust her to put bits and pieces together. “Harriet Lily Potter. What the _fuck_ have you been up to?”

Hermione very rarely cursed. Harriet had to concede that this time it was very warranted. She was just glad they were early enough for breakfast barely anyone had heard their conversation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go straight to Dumbledore after breakfast. He can tell me how crazy I am himself.”

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore gingerly took off his half-moon glasses, wiping them down with a patterned silk cloth. He looked much older than usual, and his decrepit hand didn’t help matters.

“Harriet, my dear girl… you should have come to me before with this. It is very dangerous, what you did last night. And taking all these potions…”

She squirmed in her seat. Perhaps it was her mentor’s sad blue gaze on her, but she didn’t feel very victorious now.

“You have feelings for Tamsyn Riddle, despite all she has done, despite everything she will continue to do?”

The question pierced through her heart, and it was because she knew the answer. It was messed up, and wrong, and there was probably a mental disorder for it.

So she nodded, grimly, biting back tears at the disappointment that was to come. “I’d never felt this good before, sir… I tried to fight it, I really did…”

  
“And you failed. Sometimes the heart just wants what it wants… even warring with one’s mind,” he said, oddly calmly. “And yet, you took these newfound feelings, and turned them into strength. You turned them against her, my girl. This is why I told you that love is the most powerful magic of them all, Harriet.”

“But sir… it’s wrong. I can’t- I can’t feel like this, she’ll just overcome it and keep going. Even if she managed to understand, I couldn’t… A relationship is just not possible, she wouldn’t stop murdering for a silly crush!”

Dumbledore finished cleaning his glasses, and he perched them on top of his crooked nose. “Harriet, I am not going to scold you for feelings you cannot control. It would make me a hypocrite,” he said very quietly. “You will find I am… uniquely unqualified to advise you on this matter.”

“What?” She blurted out, uncomprehending.

“Harriet, my girl… my poor girl…” He said, and for once, the moniker sounded like it actually meant something. Like they were related, as if he were her grandfather, mourning her fate. “I found myself in your position once. And I failed in my endeavour. I could not save him from himself.”

Him. Dumbledore had been in love with a man once. Well, there went the fear of homophobia, at least.

“Who was it, sir?”

He heaved a sigh, and she could see pain in his eyes. “Gellert Grindelwald. I trust you know who he is.”

The Dark Lord before Voldemort. The one Dumbledore defeated in a duel, and imprisoned somewhere she couldn’t remember.

“Everyone expected me to fight him, but I could not. The…” He took a deep breath. “The love was mutual, you see. We were in a relationship, once. And his ideas became more and more radical, and we fought, and well, that was our break up story. But I could not bear to hurt him, even with all the atrocities he was responsible for.”

“That’s why you didn’t kill him,” Harriet said, in realization. She looked at him in the eye, and all she saw was pain. “…you still love him.”

“Yes,” was the whispered confession. How many people had he told this? Not many, she suspected.

Perhaps it was her Gryffindor recklessness. Perhaps it was her stupid loving heart that had managed to find space for a murderer in it. But she rose from her seat, walked around the cluttered desk, and hugged the man.

For all the six years she’d known him, she’d never hugged Dumbledore before. The idea just sounded foreign to her, but right now, he looked like he really needed it. And when he turned around and hugged her back properly, she realized that perhaps she did, too.

What a pair of idiots they must have made, hugging each other like this, under Fawkes’ watchful gaze. But she couldn’t care less, burrowing her face in her elderly mentor’s extravagant robes. He smelled like lemon drops.

“Love is the most powerful magic of them all,” he repeated. “But just as it can create, and grow into something beautiful and strong, it can also destroy beyond repair. I wish it wasn’t like this, my girl.”

He pulled away from the hug, still holding her shoulders. “Harriet, you can’t change someone, no matter how much you love them. They have to choose to change, and put in the work. Some people will never be willing to do that. If Tamsyn grew to love you, dare I say want to pursue a relationship with you… would you be willing to set aside your morals, your views, and stand by as she pursues her goals?”

“Of course not!” She replied, offended by the obvious question.

“Then, the alternative is just as simple and as difficult as it sounds. She would have to change. Unfortunately, pushing for redemption against someone’s will usually leads to heartbreak.” He sighed heavily, squeezing her shoulders. “Your situation is dire, my dear girl. But do not repeat this old fool’s mistakes.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” She said, feeling like something was getting lodged in her throat. “Just… try to get rid of these feelings?”

“Oh, Harriet… your heart is so strong. You have endured so much, and yet you still find it in yourself to love. This is not a bad thing. It makes you human.”

“But she’s been exploiting my pain, sir,” Harriet protested. Her cheeks reddened. “These dreams… I’d never felt better in my entire life. She probably knows that, and she used it against me.”

Dumbledore made a soft noise in understanding. “The heart wants what it wants, and yet, you are sound of mind. This is what matters, my girl. You have learned to see through her manipulation, and have come to others for aid.” He sighed. “This is a good thing, because you might have learned this in time, but her tactics might change in the future. You might want to be prepared.”

Harriet looked at him. Now that she knew what she did, it was as if she was truly taking him in for the first time. “Does it ever get better, Professor?”

“In my experience?” He laughed, humourlessly. It didn’t sound right coming from him. “It still hurts after sixty years. He has mellowed out over time, however. Imprisonment does that to some people.”

“Wait. Do you mean you… have seen him?”

Dumbledore nodded, and Harriet got the feeling he wouldn’t say anything more. It must be too painful, and she understood.

“You better head to class, my girl. I have kept you here for far too long,” he said, squeezing her shoulders a bit one last time. “Enough of listening to an old man’s ramblings of failure.”

She wanted to reassure him, but she didn’t know how. With a heavy heart of her own, Harriet mumbled a goodbye and left.

 

* * *

 

Nurmengard had always been chilly, shrouded by a natural cold aura that was very distinct from Azkaban’s dementors.

Azkaban’s cold felt like terror running down one’s spine by forces unseen. Nurmengard’s felt like a merciless winter.

Albus honestly could not tell which one was worse, but he always made a point to leave warming charms in his wake as he made his way to the only occupied cell of the huge complex.

The prisoner did not look at the door when he heard footsteps, for there was only one person who had ever visited him during the past six decades.

“You are early,” he observed, staring at the dreary grey ceiling.

“Your ability to keep track of the passage of time will never cease to amaze me, Gellert,” the Headmaster said softly.

“It keeps me sane,” was the only reply, as he popped and stretched his old bones and sat up on the bed. His eyes, once full of life, were now dull and sunken with age. His blond hair had faded to the lily white Albus also sported. “Or as sane as I can be, anyway. So tell me, Albus. What is the occasion? I was not expecting you in months.”

Albus kept his hands in his robe pockets, dread pooling in his stomach. After all these years, even the shadow of what once was a great, powerful man managed to permeate his soul.

“Clear and to the point as usual, I see. I have come to bear bad news, I’m afraid.”

Gellert raised an eyebrow, and despite himself, the familiar quirk brought images of that same playful smirk and boyish charm in entirely different circumstances. “Have you finally come to execute me? That could be hardly called bad news, dear. Especially not if it was done by your tender hand.”

Yes, it still hurt when the man said things like these. Especially because, with his Occlumency barriers shattered by the anti-magic shackles, Albus knew he meant it.

“I find it ironic that you would mention hands, because they have a lot to do with what I am here to say,” Albus muttered, trying to keep calm. He had half a mind to walk inside the cell, but the iron bars were a fragile protection his mind clung to in order to keep some semblance of composure. “Death will part us soon, but it shall not be yours.”

Removing his hands from his pockets was the hardest thing he had done in months, and he’d talked about heartbreak in excruciating detail with his student just scarce hours ago.

Gellert seemed to spring to life, a sharp contrast to Albus’ withered appendage. He rose from his spartan bed and gripped his cell’s bars tightly until his knuckles turned white.

“What is this, Albus? Who did this to you?”

“My own foolishness did,” he confessed. “I found the Stone, Gellert. And I was too reckless to check it for curses… this poison shall soon overtake my body. I am living on borrowed time.”

“Not if you make Death bow down to your feet!” He exclaimed. It’d been years since Gellert rose his voice. “You took the Wand from me. You have the Stone. Steal the Cloak from Potter, Albus. Do what I could not, save yourself.”

“I cannot…” he murmured, slumping in defeat. His forehead touched the cold metal. “I have lived long enough, Gellert. And she is its rightful owner… there is so much she has yet to accomplish, she will need all the help she can get.”

“And so you will leave me alone, here to rot in this cage until I join you,” Gellert said, but there was no heat in his voice. Only sorrow. Albus placed his hands on the other man’s. Gellert was always chilly.

Flaunting the Elder Wand in front of him was just plain wrong, and using magic he could not would just rub salt to the wound. So he warmed them with his breath, and the intimacy of the gesture made a tenseness he hadn’t noticed in Gellert’s shoulders disappear.

He pressed a kiss to his knuckle, almost in apology for his own impending demise. “She has found herself in my predicament from years ago. She told me today.”

Albus did not need to elaborate, because Gellert cracked a sad smile. It was like he could read his thoughts, even without his magic. “Your golden girl is a fool, then. Just like you were, for loving someone like me. You should have heeded your brother’s warning that I was bad news, Albus.”

“I have faith that she will be stronger than me. Stronger than this old man who is still very much a fool.”

The confession slipped easily, for they both knew it.

“Let us be fools together, then, Albus. One last time.” Gellert’s tone was pleading. He knew this was goodbye.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Albus opened the door, which reacted to his magic with ease. It was for Gellert’s own protection rather than an escape deterrent: the man was powerless and his ankle shackled to the wall by an unbreakable chain.

It was also Albus’ way of keeping his heart closed when all he’d wanted to do for years was just… this.

Gellert’s kisses tasted bittersweet, and he could feel a salty wetness between them. Was it him crying? Were the tears his own? He couldn’t tell anymore. His world was blurring, spinning out of control, and the only thing keeping him grounded to reality was the emaciated man in his arms, real and finally close enough and-

He had known this was goodbye long before he Apparated to Nurmengard. But it still tore him up inside to leave the love of his life behind, in that dirty bed, sleeping peacefully for once.


	5. Playing with fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet steps too close to the flame, and Voldemort wants to teach her a lesson she won't be able to forget.

The conversation with Dumbledore had dampened her mood, and she could barely pay attention in class.

Nevermind that this was Snape she was having class with. DADA had been her best subject until now, and she just couldn’t bloody think.

Snape was oddly quiet about this, too. Usually, if she as much as stopped working for two seconds, she’d get ridiculed in front of the class, and points would be taken. And yet, she’d been zoning out for almost the entire lecture and he’d done nothing.

Perhaps he took pity on her from the whole potions ordeal. It was very unlike Snape, however. Snape did _not_ do mercy, nor pity.

The thought of what he might be plotting was almost enough to keep her on her toes and start paying attention, but bigger things captured her mind.

Like the fact that her scar stopped throbbing as soon as she’d tried to harden her resolve.

Harriet thought bottling up her feelings would make it easier. Dumbledore’s pain didn’t leave her mind, either. But if that was what Voldemort wanted, then…

She forced herself to think long and hard about the dreams. The foggy haze that accompanied them made it difficult to focus on the details, but she made sure to remember what she had liked about Riddle in them. It was a tough exercise of introspection, now that she was wide awake, but she had to dwell on it at some point or another, didn’t she?

She’d liked Riddle’s lingering touches, teasing at something yet unrevealed. She’d liked the flickers of genuine emotion she could sometimes see in her eyes, before they were replaced by the placid calm she wore as a mask. She’d liked starting a kiss, and the way Riddle had responded, startled and almost vulnerable at first, then responding enthusiastically, possessively, almost as if reassuring herself that she was still in control.

Harriet found herself wanting to know more about the woman behind the mask. Voldemort was her ruthless persona, and from the first vision after her resurrection, she’d known that her looks had been restored, after she admired her reptilian visage in the mirror and murmured that the glamour was even ‘better than before’. Why she wanted to parade around as a noseless wraith was beyond Harriet, but perhaps it had something to do with control.

Control, control, control. Riddle’s masks had bloody masks. It infuriated and intrigued her.

The heavenly woman in her dreams had been another mask, she now knew. She’d used her real looks for that, knowing that she was damn beautiful and it’d get her guard down. But the mask had cracked last night, when Harriet wrenched control away from her and returned her ministrations. Why? As nice as being taken care of was, surely she would know that it was only natural to want to reciprocate. Give and take, after all.

She liked this cracked mask the most, Harriet realized. The tiniest hint of vulnerability, the confusion in her eyes… it was strangely endearing to her.

For a second, almost experimentally, she allowed herself to feel freely, her heart swelling at the thought of the serpentine woman (seriously, she slept with the bloody glamour on? How ridiculous could she get?) turning to her familiar for comfort, as she often did with Hedwig. It was such a human gesture.

Her heart _throbbed_ with the need to see her again, and the intensity of her emotions almost overwhelmed her. She’d never indulged in thinking long and hard about positive emotions, just savouring them in the present while they lasted, while her darkest thoughts plagued her continuously. But this? It was new, exciting, and freeing. Harriet idly wondered if she could conjure a Patronus while thinking of Voldemort’s scrunched up expression, confusion plastered all over her face, as she stroked her killer snake.

Her scar pulsed like a heartbeat. Oh, she’d gotten her attention. A placid smile was on her face, as she stared down at her long-forgotten parchment and her mind switched off.

No guilt. No self-hatred. Just _feel_ , Harriet ordered herself, and she allowed the warmth to spread, and a shudder that wasn’t her own wracked her body.

Had Voldemort heard that? Panic, confusion, the lukewarm beginnings of anger filled her mind, and Harriet had to duck her head lower to hide her grin from Snape.

With the link wide open and emotions running freely, she could hear the distant echo of a familiar voice.

‘ _What are you doing to me?_ ’

Harriet thought it ironic. She sounded completely out of her depth, and yet, her earlier manipulations had the formula down to the T. Had she just been going through the motions?

‘ _Are you in denial, Tamsyn? Does it_ hurt _? Who is the one running away from her feelings now?_ ’

Sizzling anger burned her scar, but Harriet had been expecting it. It was a dangerous game she was playing, and she had nothing up her sleeve but her feelings and the ability to share them.

If the _power the Dark Lady knows not_ was actual, literal love, well leave it to her to ‘vanquish’ Voldemort by snogging her senseless until she got it through her thick skull.

Dumbledore said that change had to come from within. Why was she doing this, then? Was it vindictive pleasure, payback for the months of turmoil and manipulation? Was it just… _adorable_ to see the Dark Lady stumble head-first into a crush with denial, confusion, and all the finesse of a tween? Pure madness, perhaps?

‘ _You are playing with fire_ ,’ her voice echoed ominously in her head. ‘ _Prepare to get burnt tonight._ ’

Despite herself, Harriet shivered in anticipation at the threat, as she felt the link abruptly close.

 

* * *

 

The Girl-Who-Lived didn’t take her Dreamless Sleep that night. The dosage had gotten so small she knew it was almost placebo at this point, offered to her in the tiny vials usually reserved for Veritaserum, and she had to give Snape some credit, because the git knew how to deal with addiction efficiently. She hadn’t felt the withdrawal symptoms in a while.

Perhaps she ought to thank him. Maybe. Someday.

Instead, she curled up in bed, tried to relax, and allowed sleep to take her gradually. It had been so long since she’d done this, even the tiny doses aided in knocking her out in minutes.

It took her a while to take in her surroundings. The location of her dreams up to this point had always been non-distinct, her focus entirely on the woman around her.

This time, however, she recognized where she was. It was Voldemort’s bedroom, from the vision. The fog was nowhere near her brain. She felt awake, alive, like this was _real_.

The woman had her back turned to her, staring directly at the fireplace. The flames’ warm light cut her silhouette crisply, making her look oddly ethereal. She was in her snakelike form, Harriet noticed.

“I see you fancy yourself a teacher,” she said finally, her voice sibilant as it always was in this form. “A little girl guiding the Dark Lady through _love_.”

The word was spat in disgust, but it did not bother Harriet. She expected this reaction. The deceptive calm in her voice gave her pause, though. The fireplace. She hadn’t meant she was going to get burnt literally, had she?

“Perhaps,” was the answer to her unvoiced thoughts. Oh, right. The link was stronger here. “Perhaps not. You are at my mercy here, are you not? I think you know that already.”

“As much as you are at mine,” Harriet said. She had proved that last night, after all.

Voldemort ignored her taunt. “The old fool told you I wanted to be a teacher, did he not?” She said, and it caught the younger witch off-guard. What did it have to do with anything? “You think your… feelings, are pure, that nothing can sully them.”

She turned around, and there stood Lady Voldemort in all her malicious glory. Her crimson eyes burned bright, and her grin was feral.

“Allow me to teach you, then, the intricacies of _lust_.”

Harriet shivered as those skeletal hands pulled her close and into a kiss. The lack of lips made it sloppy, and when she gasped at the new and strange sensation, a forked tongue slipped into her mouth.

Even with the glamour… even with the face she associated with death and murder… even without the damned fog that clouded her mind with _bliss_ , Harriet felt a strangled moan escape her throat. She was slipping fast, she could feel it. Her knees felt weak, and she would be wobbling if those pale, claw-like hands weren’t holding her upright.

The kiss ended all too soon, and when Voldemort pulled away, she hummed, pleased with herself. Her gaze bored into her. “You should see yourself right now. My, all hot and bothered just by a simple _kiss_.”

With that, she snapped her fingers and a mirror appeared into view, next to them. Voldemort tilted her chin with a single finger, directing her towards it.

Harriet was panting, lips swollen and face flushed. Her eyes were half-lidded, clouded with desire.

“Look at this, Harriet. Tell me what this is.”

She felt tongue-tied, almost as if she couldn’t process the question.

“You are a strange one,” Voldemort murmured, tilting her face away from the mirror and forcing her gaze on her own again. “I was going to ask you if you still wanted me, needed me, _loved_ me in this body… and yet, you have provided me with all the answers already.”

Her serpentine eyes flashed predatorily, and Harriet was alarmed to realize that the tingle of fear running down her spine wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Voldemort crowded her, stepping closer until Harriet’s legs collided with something soft, and it took her a few seconds to realize it was the bed. She was entranced by those crimson eyes.

“I might take a page from your book, Harriet. Give and take, right?”

The younger witch frowned in confusion, and the laughter she got in response was… genuine?

“And you have the _gall_ to think I am the clueless one,” Voldemort said, pushing her back against the bed and pressing a kiss on her scar. It tingled in pleasure, and she shivered. “Give and take. You have given me your heart…”

The serpentine woman vanished her outer robes with a flick of the wrist, and Harriet finally saw what lay underneath. It was a simple tunic, highlighting her bone-thin frame and the small curve of her chest, with gothic accents. She absently wondered if Bellatrix had gotten her fashion style from her.

“…and I shall take your innocence.”

These words interrupted her train of thought to a screeching halt, even banishing any hateful thoughts of Bellatrix from her mind.

“… _what_.”

Voldemort chuckled, sitting on the bed next to her, leaning in close and tracing a path of fire from her neck all the way to her ear with her forked tongue. Her hands were cold, but her tongue was warm. The contrast made Harriet feel… _things_.

Pushing her hair out of the way, Voldemort nibbled on her ear and _oh_ , she suddenly couldn’t think anymore. She didn’t even notice when the woman started unbuttoning her pyjama top, until she could feel her cold fingers on her exposed chest, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

An icy hand cupped one of her breasts, and heat crept up to her face and down her groin. Harriet squirmed, she felt exposed, open and vulnerable. She’d never been touched there before, what she had last year with Cho never went beyond snogging.

“Why so bashful, dear? You already made it perfectly clear you wanted, _needed_ me. You can have me now,” Voldemort whispered in her ear, and she punctured her words by twisting Harriet’s nipple.

The cold sensation made her cry out, in pain or pleasure she didn’t know, but long nails were tracing the curve of her chest as they had once done with her face in other dreams, and her head was cloudy. It wasn’t the fog, she knew. This was all her. She squirmed, craving, needing… her legs rubbed together.

“You are catching on quickly, it seems,” Voldemort hummed, in appreciation. “What a wonderful student. Perhaps upping the ante will be necessary.”

The nails trailed lower, and somewhere in her lower stomach the caress made her stutter out a breath she’d been holding and something clench inside her. Gooseflesh covered her torso, and when Voldemort shifted in position, she almost thought she’d leave her there, half-naked and reeling.

She did no such thing, though. Instead, she removed Harriet’s pyjama top all the way, and made quick work to tie her wrists above her head with the sleeves.

Fuck, she really was at her mercy, wasn’t she. Idly, she thought that if she just stretched her arms over and around her head, she could touch Voldemort anyway, but the thought of being bound like this had her stomach in knots.

In a _good_ way.

“Good girl. Do not make me actually tie you to the headpost, these are…” the Dark Lady ran her forked tongue over her teeth, and it made Harriet shiver. “ _Advanced lessons_.”

Her trousers were pulled down with agonising slowness, and despite the fact that the hearth was warming up the air, whenever those fingers brushed up against her legs she felt another tingle of that maddening cold that contrasted with her feverish skin.

Voldemort twitched her fingers, and the mirror was back.

Harriet could barely recognize herself in the reflective surface. Her hair was mussed, her chest covered in scratches (when did that happen? Why hadn’t it hurt?) her skin flushed and covered with a thin sheen of sweat, her knickers soaked.

She was ashamed of her own desperation. Voldemort had been right, it was plastered all over her face and body.

“Are you staring long and hard? Can you _see_ this? I barely did anything to you, dear. This is all your head, you want me badly enough to come undone at the slightest touch.” The woman sounded so damn pleased with herself, and Harriet could feel her clit throb under the thin barrier of clothing. “Can you tell me what this is now?”

“I… I…” she couldn’t answer. Her mouth felt dry, and she couldn’t think clearly. She wanted to tear her eyes away from her own lustful gaze, but the mirror was right in front of her.

“ **Yessss** …” Voldemort said, and it took her a second to realize that she’d slipped into Parseltongue. “That is exactly it. It is _lust_ , Harriet. Funny how it bleeds into your precious love until one becomes nearly indistinguishable from the other, is it not? How it makes you crave the touch of the hand that killed those you hold dear, the lips that have uttered the killing curse so many times, the monstrous visage I have seen in your worst nightmares.”

The mirror was gone, and Voldemort was impossibly close. Her words ghosted against Harriet’s lips, her warm breath taking her own away. Her crimson eyes were intense, unyielding.

“Tell me, Harriet. Do you still want me?”

She was breathless. Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips, and the truth slipped out with an ease that should have frightened her.

“Yes... Merlin, _yes_.”


	6. Lessons learned, souls naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort has a plan. It does not go as she expected it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire first half of this chapter is NSFW content.

“Yes… Merlin, _yes_.”

Her voice was thick with it… thick with _lust_ , and her muddled brain tried to process the feeling. She tried to find the tenderness, the care that had burned so fiercely in her chest that morning, and it still pulsed. Or was that her own heartbeat, rapidly quickening when she felt Voldemort’s cold fingers hook around her knickers? She wasn’t sure.

“No more thinking,” she commanded roughly, yanking them away and they suddenly vanished and she felt very cold. Voldemort was on top of her now, her skeletal body still cold against her despite the tunic she wore, and the contrast brought up a moan from her, swallowed greedily by the woman’s mouth. They kissed languidly, and she could feel it when her lips, the ones she wasn’t using, swelled and throbbed with need.

“S’not fair,” Harriet murmured, her words slightly slurred, when they parted for air.

Voldemort arched a hairless eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

“That… you’re still wearing clothes, I mean,” and she hid her face into the crook of the woman’s cold neck, embarrassment catching up to what she’d just said.

“…you wish to see me naked?” Genuine surprise coloured Voldemort’s words, and fighting against her shame with all her willpower, Harriet wrenched her face away from its cooling comfort and greedily drank in the sight of a bamboozled Dark Lady.

 _This_ , she thought. She wanted to see more of this. As hot as… everything was, Harriet desperately wanted to wrench that mask from the woman and elicit genuine reactions from her. Lust was fire. Love was a hearth. And Voldemort was the fuel, all of her.

She’d been wrong, before. Maybe after this Harriet would feel sullied, her feelings tainted. But not now. She arched to press a chaste kiss on her lipless mouth, slack with surprise. Just like last time.

“Yes,” she said, and it managed to come out breathless but steady. “Yes, I do.”

Voldemort looked at her oddly, and Harriet thought she wouldn’t do it. But then she pulled back a bit, sitting up on the bed, and pulled the tunic over her head.

Harriet admired the craftswomanship of the glamour properly for the first time. She’d seen a glance of her naked form at the cemetery, of her newly formed body, but now she could see why Voldemort was proud of this new and improved glamour.

It wasn’t classically beautiful, by any means. She looked like a proper wraith, skeletal, all jagged edges and protruding bone. But she could almost feel the care that went into designing this form, the _detail_ that went into it. She must know a lot about anatomy, she realized, to twist it like this, make it bend to her whim.

She was probably proud of her work. It made her look inhuman, like a monster. And yet there was something so intrinsically _human_ about the way she undressed, her fingers almost hesitant as she unclasped her black lace bra. Her control was slipping.

(The irony of Voldemort, in her serpentine glory wearing lace lingerie was not lost on her. The warmth in her chest spread wider at the sight of this ridiculous, _ridiculous_ woman.)

“I said no more thinking,” Voldemort snapped, twisting Harriet’s nipple again, a bit more forcefully this time. _Ow_.

But Harriet felt bold. Despite her laboured breaths, the uncomfortable ache in her crotch and the need still radiating off her in waves, she still felt just a bit reckless. She didn’t mind getting burned, not anymore.

“Jeez, woman, sorry to think you look lovely,” she said, and relished in her startled look. Her chest was free now, and Harriet could see it was almost an afterthought in the glamour. Globules of pale flesh, sagging just slightly, somehow not looking out of place in her almost protruding ribcage.

“I think your glasses might need a higher prescription,” she said dryly.

And Harriet _laughed_. It was freeing, and maybe it was weird to laugh in the middle of sex (was it? Was it going to be?) but she didn’t care. She was giddy, horny, and she was finally starting to catch glimpses behind the mask.

“You look more comfortable like this. You took your time making this glamour, and I can see you’re proud of it. And that’s attractive,” she said. Was that a dusting of red on her protruding cheekbones, or was it her imagination? “Has anyone ever seen you like this?”

She paused for a moment, almost considering. She was still straddling Harriet, wearing her dark lace knickers. “No. Not in this form.”

Harriet didn’t mean to fight for control with her like this, she truly didn’t. What the Dark Lady had been doing before could have melted her to a puddle, could still melt her to a puddle. Her clit still throbbed with need, unattended.

But the cracks in the mask, the vulnerability, were so bloody irresistible. Warmth surged in her chest, and a little bit of possessiveness, she had to admit. No one had seen Voldemort like this.

This time, she knew they both had felt it, for her scar was tingling pleasantly. Voldemort had strong Occlumency shields, which was the reason why she’d been able to read Harriet so easily in their amplified link while she was left scrambling to pick up the glimpses of humanity, but now she knew the woman had felt the full brunt of her emotion.

“I said, no more-“

“Thinking, I know. I can’t help _feeling_ , though,” Harriet said, voice soft.

“Soon, you shall only feel lust. Nothing more.”

With a snap of her fingers, her knickers were gone. Harriet stared down, to see… a surprisingly normal vagina, actually. She didn’t know what she’d expected. A live snake, like Medusa’s hair? Probably not. Voldemort probably never intended for that part of her anatomy to be seen in this glamour.

Distracted by her train of thought, she never noticed the predatory glint returning to the woman’s crimson eyes, until she felt a warm tongue soothing her abused nipple. An embarrassing yelp escaped her throat, and Voldemort chuckled, sending vibrations around her torso. She was so close she could probably feel her stuttering heartbeat.

Nails raked up and down her sides, hitting that sensitive spot in her waist every so often, and making her hips buckle involuntarily. That tongue was making its way down slowly, almost leisurely, Voldemort trailing open-mouthed kisses on her skin.

And when she finally reached her entrance, and her labia throbbed in anticipation...

She nipped at her inner thigh, and Harriet _squeaked_.

“Do not relax just yet.”

Voldemort kept skirting around the area, leaving kisses and bite marks on her inner thighs, and when Harriet’s hips buckled in frustration, she pushed them down in a bruising grip, long nails pricking at her skin.

It was maddening. And her mask of impassivity was back on full force, which made her teasing even more infuriating. Her skin seared with pain wherever her nails and teeth had been, and she was embarrassed to admit it was not entirely unpleasant.

But if she would _just_ –

“If I would just _what_ , Harriet?”

Oh. Oh, of course that was what she’d been doing, the bloody tease. She wanted her to _beg_.

When she saw the woman’s grin, she knew her realization had been acknowledged.

“Y-you already know, goddammit. You’ve been in my head the whole sodding time, can’t you just–“ She hated how weak her voice sounded.

“I want you to say it out loud. Ask nicely, and you shall be rewarded.”

Harriet wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl up in a hole and die.

But most pressingly, she desperately wanted to _come_.

“Please… y-your tongue, on my…” Godric’s Sword, she sounded pathetic. “ _P-pussy_ …”

“Ah, that was not so hard now, was it?” Voldemort practically purred, stroking her thigh with mock-tenderness. “Your manners leave a bit to be desired, but for a first time, it is not so bad. You shall learn in the future.”

 _In the future_ , Harriet thought. This wasn’t a one-time thing. She didn’t know how to feel, trepidation and arousal building up in her stomach–

“Don’t think, Harriet,” Voldemort said, and she recognized her own words coming next. “ _Just feel_.”

And it was so easy to do that, when a warm forked tongue slipped between her folds and–

 _oh_.

Harriet babbled incoherently, half the words caught in her throat as Voldemort expertly twisted her tongue around her clit, circling it and sending shockwaves of pleasure right to her core. She trembled slightly, all the teasing from earlier wound her up tightly and she felt like she could topple over the edge at any moment.

A bit of teeth on one of her labia and Harriet _mewled_ , too high on arousal to register the bite as anything but pleasure.

She didn’t even know what Voldemort was doing down there. She vaguely registered she’d slipped into Parseltongue at some point, senselessly begging for more in desperate hisses as dark spots danced around her vision, glasses foggy with her laboured breath.

She was suddenly glad that one of the woman’s hands was keeping her steady at the hip, because she was starting to squirm and she didn’t want the delicious torture to stop.

A loud, and certainly lewd noise made her look down, and to see Voldemort from that angle, suckling on her clit – was that her _hand_ in her? With all the sharp long nails? She couldn’t register it, she was overstimulated, she was so far _gone_ – was like a switch flicked in her brain, and her head lolled back as a powerful orgasm crashed into her, curling her toes and making her clench, hard, around Voldemort’s fingers.

She was vaguely aware she’d come with a cry, hissing that barely sounded like her own voice filling her ears, raspy from her dry mouth.

She’d never experienced something like this before. Her own hand could never compare. It was ludicrous to even think of such an idea.

With a last, gentle lick that made her shiver, Voldemort withdrew her mouth and her fingers from her. Now that Harriet was slowly coming to from her high, she could see the woman looking at her strangely.

Squirming a bit from the scrutiny, she wondered if perhaps she wanted the younger witch to reciprocate. She would, if she wanted her to, when she got some of her limb coordination back.

But Voldemort simply stood, looking more composed than anyone ever had the right to while naked and with Harriet’s juices dribbling down her chin, and made to pick up her clothing.

“W-wait!” Harriet said, before she could stop herself.

She did. Her mask was back, and she wanted to rip the damn construct to pieces, bridge the gap, don’t just _stare_ – “You do not need me to untie you. I know you are capable of doing it on your own.”

“No, that’s not it…” she said, desperation clawing up at her insides. “…please stay?”

She didn’t care about the bloody shirt tying her wrists. She just didn’t want to be left alone again, after her first time, and have her last look at the woman be that godawful mask of impassivity.

Voldemort looked at her in that strange way again, and she did what she’d thought earlier: move her arms in a semicircle over her head, and tug the knot loose with her teeth. With her hands free and resting on her stomach, she could only wait for the unavoidable. She would leave. She didn’t even know what time of the night it was, or if she would wake up at any moment soon, but the thought of her leaving left Harriet cold and empty.

She’d closed her eyes, bracing herself for it. But the bed suddenly dipped, and shocked green eyes met crimson.

“Scoot back,” she said, starting to tug at the end of the silken sheets. Harriet did, incredulity plastered all over her face, as the fabric slid easily from under her naked body, and then over.

Voldemort was in bed with her. She’d covered them both. It was almost _domestic_ , in a way.

She realized Voldemort hadn’t let her touch her once during the entire affair.

“C… can I…?”

Her voice still sounded vulnerable, and she hated it. What made her feel a bit better, though, was that the reply sounded just as vulnerable.

“…you may.”

Harriet scooted closer. She knew Voldemort had picked the thought right off her head, she knew what the younger witch wanted. And so she did.

She wrapped her arms around the Dark Lady, letting her body warm her up. Never in her wildest dreams, or nightmares, did she think she’d spoon with Lady Voldemort, let alone know that she’d be the big spoon. She affectionately nuzzled the woman’s protruding spine, each vertebrae almost looking like spikes on a reptile’s back. Maybe she wasn’t meant to look like a snake. Maybe she’d gone for the iguana look.

Her voice startled Harriet out of her ridiculous, post-coital thoughts.

“You said my name,” she said quietly.

“Mmmh?”

“My _birth_ name,” she clarified. “You said it in your climax. In Parseltongue.”

Warmth rose to her cheeks. Had she? She didn’t even remember half the things she’d hissed. Maybe a love confession had sneaked its way in there at some point, and she’d have no way of knowing.

“…oh.” Because, really. What was she supposed to say? It was one thing to call her that when she was vulnerable. But when Harriet had been? When they’d _both_ been? It felt intimate. It felt like something.

It felt like the warmth she felt, spreading across her chest and making her heart sing.

Voldemort didn’t say anything else. She just curled up, accepting Harriet’s embrace.

If this was as close as love as they could get, Harriet would take it.

* * *

Voldemort woke up cold and alone in her bed, and she felt strangely hollow. Were the girl’s emotions poisoning her consciousness again? No, she realized. Her Occulmency barriers were up, like a stronghold.

The emptiness was her own.

Cursing internally, she cast a wandless warming charm on herself, burrowing deeper in the silken sheets. The glamour always made her feel chilly, perhaps because she’d delved in some alchemy to make it feel more real. She was almost reptilian in nature, not quite, but one couldn’t get more cold-blooded than this. She’d only restored her old body out of pure practicality, as the one Wormtail brewed for her, built in the image she’d presented as for years, was physically frail and had a weaker core. Sometimes she wished she’d been born in this form. Perhaps it was the literal cold blood that made her impervious to her own crimes. It was an amusing thought to entertain.

  
It would distract her from last night. …oh, and there she went, thinking about it.

She’d wanted to sully the girl, give her a taste of what lust could do to a person, even beg for her parents’ murderer’s touch. Show her how fickle love truly was. When she finally understood just how easy it was to manipulate her, she would drop her silly attempt at rebellion, and not put up a fight when the time to invade Hogwarts finally came. She would have her horcrux safe, even if it was now clear to her that she would not come to her out of her own volition.

But that was not what happened, was it? Voldemort was no stranger to lust. She’d had her way with people, either for her own pleasure or to trap them in her clutches, coerce information, attain what she wanted… both men and women. Some, she obliviated afterwards. Most, she’d killed.

Last night, however, was different. There had been tenderness there, intimacy. She’d purposefully wanted the girl’s first time to be rough, but there’d been sweet surrender in her eyes. She’d appreciated Voldemort’s form, one that was specifically designed to be as unappealing and threatening as possible. The choice had also been deliberate, she wanted to show the girl just how far gone she could be if she let a monster ravish her, but she’d said…

She looked comfortable in it. She could feel in the girl’s mind that her confidence attracted her. She was peering far too much into her humanity and Voldemort _hated_ it.

Her hisses echoed in her ears, taunting her. ‘ **More, Tamsyn, please, I need it, I need you.** ’ She growled under her breath, pressing her face against the pillow, willing the memories to go away. ‘ **I can’t take it, I love you so much, please...** ’

She’d been completely senseless back then, too far gone to notice Voldemort stiffen at her words. Her name. The sweet nothings, the confessions, spoken in Parseltongue like an oath, directly unfiltered by her brain. She’d wanted to sully the girl’s feelings, but they’d only grown stronger. She could feel it, pulsing through their soul link.

If Voldemort hadn’t felt vulnerable enough, she was completely _powerless_ in Harriet’s arms, both of them stark naked, curled up in bed like…

Like lovers.

She missed the younger witch’s warm presence beside her, and self-loathing consumed her.


	7. Plans in motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harriet is reminded that she's not alone, but she sure feels like it.

The link was shut tight with padlock and key, and for once, Harriet didn’t mind. It gave her time to think.

Last night… it had been _something_ , alright? It certainly was something that happened, that was for sure.

She just didn’t know what to think about it.

It had been great, fantastic, absolutely brilliant. She’d consented to it, enthusiastically even, she’d gotten to peek beneath the mask, she’d managed to convince Voldemort to _cuddle_ with her. It couldn’t get better than this. The previous dreams were fake, and last night had felt so genuine it almost hurt.

Well, it did hurt. A little.

Or more than a little. Maybe it hurt a whole lot. Because the crux of the matter was that this _was_ still Voldemort, and something like this could never work in real life. It barely worked in dreamland, clinging to existence like a house of cards ready to be toppled over.

And as much as her heart had soared last night, it only hammered the true point home deeper. That she’d never feel as good as this in real life.

She couldn’t in her right mind just waltz into Malfoy Manor or wherever Voldemort was staying, and snog her away from the war she was leading, vanquish her with cuddles, shag her to sanity. It just wasn’t realistic.

Harriet sighed, looking around the dorm. Hermione was predictably gone; she was an early riser. Fay was sleeping in. Tiptoeing around as to not wake her up, she made her way to the bathroom to shower.

She couldn’t help but stare at herself in the mirror before she jumped into the hot stream, however. All the markings were gone, and she found herself missing them. Her gaze wasn’t lustful, just tired.

The warm water helped her relax, a little bit. She didn’t feel sullied, not at all. She was just…

She was sad. For what they couldn’t have. She was repeating Dumbledore’s mistakes, wasn’t she? Did he, too, feel like this when he was younger?

Maybe he did. The pain in his eyes was very telling.

Harriet didn’t want to go through sixty years of heartbreak.

 

* * *

 

It had been a year since the galleon she still carried in her pockets burned.  Harriet squinted to read the tiny print, and it did not display a date.

‘6th year’s boys’ dorm’

It was Saturday, so she wasn’t surprised Ron might be up to something, but through this channel? Where all of the ex-DA members could see?

Harriet made her way to the dorm, and she was surprised to see it was already full of familiar faces. No wonder Hermione hadn’t been around, even in the common room.

The dorms were by no means small, but the room felt tiny and cramped in comparison with the Room of Requirement. Why weren’t they using it now?

“Harri! You made it, mate,” Ron exclaimed, patting an empty space next to him. She had to carefully step around Parvati and Dean to take her seat on Ron’s bed.

Looking around her, she could see that all twelve (counting herself) of the remaining Gryffindor members of the DA were present. “Uh… what is this about?” She asked, morosely.

“We aren’t the only ones holding a meeting. The other houses are going over the plan as well,” Hermione said, enigmatically.

Sensing her confusion, Ron spoke up again. “You were right, mate. About Malfoy. He’s up to something, alright. Something _big._ ”

Oh. It felt like decades ago since she’d thought about Malfoy’s suspicious behaviour, but if the DA had organised like this — and Merlin, wasn’t it an exciting thought? They could organise without her leadership, they wouldn’t depend on a saviour — then it really, truly, must be as bad as she’d thought.

“And since you had your hands full with You-Know-Who, we reassembled and started planning,” Ginny said, sitting criss-cross on the floor by Neville’s bed. “We took turns watching him at all times—“  
  
“I might have…borrowed your map,” Hermione interjected, bashfully.

“And we figured out the task You-Know-Who gave him,” Ginny finished, with a huge grin. “He was spilling the beans to Moaning Myrtle, and Luna overheard.”

Harriet was flabbergasted. She looked around, her eyes brimming with pride. If she’d gone about it alone as she planned to, she would have never gotten this far.

“He’s been going to the Room of Requirement, but it’s not the _actual_ room,” Parvati said, also stretched comfortably on the floor. “Anthony Goldstein managed to slip into his mind—“  
  
“He’s a Legilimens?” Harriet stammered out.

“He learned over the summer,” Parvati said with a huge grin. “So, the room he’s been sneaking into is called the Room of Hidden Things. Neville and I sneaked inside, and found out he’s been repairing this two-way door that could get _anyone_ past the Hogwarts wards.”

Harriet felt cold. “ _What?_ ” She said, standing up. Anger coiled in her belly. Riddle was going to be in _so much trouble_. If she wanted their interactions to be anything like last night, she wouldn’t pull shite like this.

She was angry, and hurt. ‘Change has to come from within,’ Dumbledore had said. And she was still the Dark Lady, of course she had plans on the side. But Harriet absolutely _refused_ to let her take over Hogwarts. Endanger children. Hogwarts was _homehomewarmsafehome_ and she wouldn’t let her ruin that.

“But we have a plan. And it _will_ work. You see—“

She didn’t let Ron finish. Harriet raised a hand to silence him, her expression determined.

“No.”

She could see the tips of his ears get a little red. “What do you mean, no?”

Harriet sighed, feeling all eyes on her. She suddenly wished this reunion was a little more private. “I mean, I trust you guys. I trust all of you, and if you say this plan is going to work, then I _know_ it’s going to work.” She took a deep breath. “That’s why I can’t know a word about it.”

Ron blanched, suddenly understanding. Confused looks were shared amongst the others, but she could see Hermione and Ginny looking at each other knowingly.

“Not a word, then,” Ginny said, fiery determination in her gaze. Harriet knew then she would rather die than let Hogwarts be raided.

“If you tell me right before you carry it out, I’ll distract her,” Harriet said. It felt wrong to manipulate someone, but hadn’t Voldemort tried to manipulate her, too?

Seamus Finnigan whispered something she couldn’t hear, which earned him a hard elbowing from Ginny.

“Harri has a… way to communicate with You-Know-Who,” Hermione said, tentatively. “An unfortunate one, and she can’t close the link. Remember, if anything gets out of this room—“

Even Seamus nodded gravely. They all remembered the incident with Marietta and Umbridge last year.

“Speaking of, any visions?” Hermione murmured.

Harriet shook her head. “Radio silence. I think she’s coping, or moping around, or… I don’t even know.”

“Moping around?” Ron choked out. “Can she even _do_ that?”

“She sulks,” Harriet said with a noncommittal shrug. “When things happen that she doesn’t understand.”

“It’s like you’re talking about a petulant Third Year,” Katie Bell said in shock, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Hey!” Protested Dennis Creevey, who was now very much a Third Year.

“Point is,” Harriet raised her voice a little, clearing her throat to get everyone’s attention. “The… Voldemort situation, I have going on, is under control. And if you have the Malfoy situation under control, then… when they both come to a head, you tell me, and I’ll distract her in any way that is humanly possible. And with the leader out, you carry out your plan.”

“Now that’s our Harri!” Exclaimed Ron, patting her roughly on the back. Merlin, every year he got stronger. “Glad to have you back, mate. We were worried about you. It’s sad we have to keep you out of the loop, but—“

“Don’t be sad”, Harriet said, shaking her head. “I’m so proud of you for taking action. All of you. Who cares if I’m the Chosen One or not? I’m just one person, and I… I can’t protect everyone. We stand stronger as a united front, and every single one of you taking care to protect yourselves. No one is infallible or dependable. Not me, and not Dumbledore. But I know you’re strong. You proved it last year, didn’t you?”

She fought back the lump in her throat, the pride she felt swelling in her chest and threatening to make her choke up. They were a handful of students, but they’d created something way bigger than that. Dumbledore’s Army… it truly felt like an army, now.

Was this how the Order started? She didn’t want to be Dumbledore, though. Everyone depended on him so much… no, as much as she _was_ one, she didn’t want to be a figurehead here, amongst comrades. Her place was on the front lines, throwing hexes and curses, protecting her friends with her body. Her place was…

In a soft silken bed, with Tamsyn Riddle’s skeletal body curled up in her arms, breathing softly, vulnerable in her sleep.

She didn’t want to be Dumbledore. But did he also live a double life like this?

 

* * *

 

“You think she loves her,” Hermione said, gazing upon the stars to try and keep calm. The astronomy tower felt chilly, even in late spring, so she’d brought her outer coat with her.

“I don’t think so. I know so.”

“Why?”

“Why I know so, or why she loves her?” Ginny said wryly, resting her back against the tower’s stone railing.

“Both, obviously.”

“Harri… she loves so deeply, so freely. Like her heart can take anything, like it’ll bounce back like nothing,” Ginny said, with a small frown. “She thought I didn’t notice her pining after me. I did. And… it hurt, because no one’d ever looked at me like that before. But I don’t fancy girls, right? So I tried my best to not hurt her feelings. And she took it so well. She’s too forgiving.”

Ginny paused, and Hermione let her take her time to continue.

“And now… she looks absolutely _smitten_. And in pain about it. She’s tough, but how tough can she be? How long can it last?”

“I suspected this much,” Hermione sighed, finally looking at her. “She seems to think You-Know-Who is growing vulnerable. Her visions show her being conflicted. But haven’t her visions been lies before?”

“I don’t know,” Ginny mumbled, shaking her head. “I’ve met her, you know that. She was charming, gorgeous, the perfect friend, a true manipulator. But the one thing I could tell she could never pull off, is faking love. She had this… poise around her, this aura of perfection. She wouldn’t let herself look vulnerable. She wouldn’t even _try_ to fake it, because she wouldn’t be able to cut it.”

“But that memory was from sixty years ago,” Hermione insisted, worried. “She could have learned plenty of things in that time. Including fake love.”

“True,” Ginny conceded. “But… Harri said she thought You-Know-Who was trying to seduce her. But with what you told me? I think it’s _Harri_ who is seducing You-Know-Who. Why else would she be so conflicted about it?”

“It could be a fake vision—“

“Yes, but indulge me for a second here. Dumbledore said love is the most powerful magic of them all, right? Setting aside how bloody creepy it is, imagine if she succeeded. Imagine if You-Know-Who fell for Harri. Imagine if that was how the war stopped.”

“It would be… nice. Poetic, even. Setting aside all the disturbing implications, of course. Like the fact that she’s a genocidal maniac who killed Harri’s parents.”

Ginny shifted her position a bit. She had to be cold, pressed against the stone like that. She showed none of it, however, grinning at Hermione instead.

“If Harri’s confident that she can distract her, it means You-Know-Who’s already interested. It’s… incredibly dangerous, yes. But if she can distract her during our plan, it will have meant so much already. Not to mention, the tiniest distraction could give the Order an advantage.”

Hermione smiled sadly. “You’re speaking like a strategist. But what about Harri? What if she ends up hurt?”

  
“Then You-Know-Who won’t even _know_ what hit her. If I have to fight her with my bare fists, I will,” she said, smacking her fist against her open palm.

“If she breaks Harri’s heart, we break all her bones,” Hermione agreed, extending her own hand with a lopsided grin. “One by one.”

“Indeed,” Ginny said, shaking it.

 

* * *

 

_That night, Harriet dreamt of Quidditch. Those were her favourite dreams, because she could fly free, away from all her worries. But this one meant she didn’t get to see Voldemort._

_She also didn’t play Quidditch anymore. Why did her dreams keep showing her the good things she couldn’t have in real life?_

_Feeling hollow, she pulled at their link, hoping at least to get a reaction from her._

_She felt turmoil. She felt… the distant echoes of a nightmare, of crying children and blaring sirens. And then she felt no more, and her perspective completely shifted._

_The Quidditch field bled away into a very familiar bedroom. Harriet tasted the air, noticing the lingering smell of Dreamless Sleep, coming from an empty vial on the nightstand. Carefully, as to not wake her Mistress up, Harriet climbed up in bed through one of the posts, and curled up next to her, her coils resting easy next to her bonded witch. She hadn’t forgotten to warm herself up, and that was good, because Harriet could bask in her warmth as well._

_Harriet was content watching her Mistress sleep. She’d learned to read her well over the years, and it put them both at ease. Even though her expression was placid now, she still shook slightly. As much as she knew her Mistress, she still couldn’t understand what it was that terrified her of her nightmares. She’d caught glimpses of them, and why would she be scared, when she was the most powerful witch in the world? Shaking her head, Harriet watched her witch curl up into herself, wrapping the silken sheets around her like a cocoon._

_Maybe the hatchling could make her stop shaking, Harriet thought sullenly. She didn’t like that the hatchling, who was the enemy, had become her Mistress’ obsession. She’d told her, once, that the hatchling was precious like Harriet, and she wasn’t allowed to attack her. But that alone couldn’t be it, she thought, because the hatchling affected her Mistress more than Harriet ever had. She was a bit jealous._

_But Mistress had told her to curb her jealousy, because the hatchling would be joining them soon. Maybe then Harriet would see what made her so special, why she affected her Mistress so._

_With that thought in mind, the silken sheets sliding pleasantly against her scales and her Mistress’ warmth beside her, Harriet fell asleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that during her visions, Harriet isn't self-aware enough to tell it's not her who is experiencing it~

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna thank Aubry for betaing this! You're seriously wonderful <3


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